


Regret, Denial or Forgetfulness

by lovesrogue36



Series: Taurean Birthday Presents [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hotel Sex, Mild Language, POV First Person, Pre-Blackout, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel meets Miles at the Grand Hotel, uncertain where they stand after she last saw him, drunk and guilt-ridden in a motel room. She knows she shouldn't be so attracted to her future brother-in-law, but no one ever accused her of great decision-making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret, Denial or Forgetfulness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buttercups3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/gifts).



> Happy Happy Birthday, bb!!! *cuddles* I know you've got the cheesecake and cocktails covered, so now you've got 9 mentions of cocks to brighten your special day...
> 
> Miles is perhaps overly-talky in this fic and Rachel probably seems overly desperate but we both know he's a sap and she loves him more than she ever knew he loved her. So. I have my justifications at the ready. ;P 
> 
> Also, I realized only at about 4300 words that I completely lied about the window sex. There is a window and there is rain and there is sex but the sex does not happen against said window. My bad, hon. 
> 
> "The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (Okay, okay, the title is a little existential and foreshadowey. But it's Oscar and I had to give you Oscar for your birthday. ;) )

**Seven Years Before the Blackout**

Miles is in town. He’s in town and he wants to see me.

I pace in our tiny apartment from the bathroom door to the kitchen window and back again, staring at my BlackBerry.

_@ the Grand. Meet me – 8?_

That’s all it says. What am I supposed to think about this, Miles? I glance down at my left hand, the narrow little engagement ring there sparkling in the lamplight. Of course, I _knew_ he was in town. It’s not as if this is a surprise.

But the last time I saw Miles was a few days before he deployed, almost seven months ago. He was drunk, (he’s _always_ drunk), and I drove him back to his motel after the engagement party. He complained the whole way there that it’s _Bass’_ job to drive him home and the _bastard_ just had to run off with the “first hot tail he saw.” (That would be Tatiana, my roommate before I moved in with Ben. She’s a Portuguese Literatures major. As I recall, the two of them really hit it off that night.)

He made me walk him to his door and proceeded to lean on my shoulders while I fished the key out of his pocket. “Ben’s got good taste,” he told me, slurring his words. “You smell good.”

I only laughed, dragging him inside and putting on a pot of crappy coffee in the hopes of sobering him up a little. I could have just left him there, I guess, but there’s something endearing and tragic about Miles when he’s drunk like that. So I pushed him onto the bed and knelt on the dingy carpet to unlace his boots and peel off his socks. He wriggled his toes at me as I stuffed the socks in his boots, chuckling.

“God, you’re drunk,” I accused him as I stood.

“God, you’re pretty,” he answered and I remember shoving my hands in my back pockets, blushing. It should have been awkward, just standing there, but it wasn’t. In fact, I couldn’t make myself move away.

Miles stared at me for a beat before he reached out with those long arms of his, yanking me onto the bed and rolling me under him. I peeped in surprise, hands bracing on his chest. “ _Fuck,_ you’re pretty,” he corrected himself, sounding a little breathless.

Miles. _Breathless_.

And then he kissed me. I should have shoved him off, slapped him, told him to go to hell. But so help me, I kissed him back. It’s all seared in my memory and I have to squeeze my eyes shut, heat rushing over my cheeks. His hand curled at the back of my neck, winding my hair around his fingers as he parted my lips with his tongue. As intensely masculine as Miles tends to be, I might have expected something hard and punishing and that would have been so much easier to be offended by. Instead, he was insistent and overwhelming and he tasted bittersweet, like whiskey. By the time we parted for air, my hands were buried in his hair and his had migrated up under the hem of my silk top, just barely brushing cool, bare skin.

The coffee pot gurgled behind us and a car honked out in the parking lot. I could have torn all our clothes off right then, honestly, but maybe he’s a better person than I am because he rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I-I’m sorry. _Shit_ , I’m sorry, Rachel.”

I reached for his shoulder with a shaking hand but he shrugged me off, refused to even look at me. “You should go.”

And he was right and it was the smart thing to do: walk away, pretend it never happened. So I did. But I sat in my car for half an hour and cried, suddenly faced with more uncertainty than I’ve ever experienced.

So what the hell is this text supposed to mean? Does he want to talk?

I cringe but I know it’s possible: does he want to fuck?

As unsettling an idea as that is, responding to a possible booty call text from my future brother-in-law, I’m gathering my purse and keys and shooting him a quick reply on my way down the stairwell. I almost turn around three times on my way there. By the time I park, he’s texted me with the room number and I admit, I feel more than a little anxious in the elevator.

What am I doing? What am I walking into?

I knock at Room 413 and there’s a quiet shuffling on the other side of the door before it swings open. And there’s Miles. His hair’s damp, (did he shower for me?), and he’s wearing a worn long-sleeved shirt that clings to his shoulders. Goddamn, he looks good.

“Rach,” he breathes.

“Miles.” My voice cracks and I can only hope I don’t blush.

“Uh, come in.” He taps a bare foot on the carpet and steps aside, motioning me in.

I clutch my purse a little tighter on my shoulder as he shuts the door behind me. The room’s beautiful with a big bed I try not to focus on and an impressive view of the cityscape. It was just starting to drizzle when I walked across from the parking garage but now it’s pouring, rain hitting the window in great sheets, the city lights just twinkling beyond.

I think Miles is saying something but I have to get this out first, no matter what, and I whirl on him, demanding, “Miles, what is this?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking lost. “What is… what?”

Waving at the room, I huff in surprise. “ _This!_ I haven’t seen you since- in- and then you text me to meet you at your hotel? At _this_ hotel?” Normally Miles stays in Super 8’s and pay-by-the-hour motels.

He stares at me for long, painful seconds before his eyes widen. “No! Son of a bitch. I just wanted to see you, I- _shit_. The room is Bass’. He has a girl in the city, ah-”

“Tatiana,” we say at the same time and my shoulders slump in relief. ( _Or disappointment?_ a cruel, masochistic part of me asks.)

“He booked the room for them but she wanted to, I don’t know, go to her place or something. I’m sorry, should have been more specific. You probably thought-” Miles flushes, glancing away.

“It’s okay,” I rush to reassure him, stepping in a little closer. We stand there awkwardly for a moment before he gestures to the minibar.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please,” I agree, maybe a bit too eagerly, but goddammit, I need a drink. I set my purse on the desk and when he reappears at my elbow with a glass of Scotch, I’m standing at the window, looking out at the flickering, pacing lights of the city.

Our fingers brush when he hands it to me and I try not to smell the wet, river scent on him, so close. Sniffing at the glass, I take a delicate sip. It burns my tongue but in a pleasant sort of way. Not unlike Miles himself, actually. “Mmm, tastes expensive.”

He shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the window. “On Bass’ tab.”

I laugh softly and it’s quiet for a minute, just the rain coming down outside and the clinking of ice in our glasses. Finally, I ask, “Why am I here, Miles?”

“I don’t know. Had to see you.” He reaches out, thick, calloused fingers brushing my cheek. “If… _that’s_ … what you thought, why did you come?”

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, picturing Ben’s face, picturing the wedding magazines on our coffee table. I’m at a loss for words and that doesn’t happen to me very often. Why _did_ I come? If he had expected a continuation of our last meeting, what would I have done? “Wanted to see you, too,” I murmur finally, honestly.

Miles’ hand clenches on his glass and he carefully turns his gaze out the window. “Why would you want to, after last time?”

I glance sideways at him, tracing his profile with my eyes. The dark wave of hair across his creased forehead, the blunt rounded tip of his nose. The soft, full purse of his lips and the shadow of stubble on his cheek. I’ve never taken so much time to just look at him, to take in the pale features that have so inconvenienced me these past few months, haunting me when I should be doubly obsessed with another face: Ben’s. “I wanted to see you because I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He cringes, tossing back the rest of his drink while I’m still nursing my first few sips. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” It’s blunt and raw and I think Miles has strung more words together in this hotel room than I’ve ever heard him say.

I laugh, raw and humorless. “No, you shouldn’t have. You’ve made my life very difficult, in fact.”

“Did you tell Ben?”

The question hangs between us for a moment before I finally murmur, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you were drunk. Because we didn’t mean it. Because it doesn’t matter.” I don’t know if I really believe any of this but it’s what I’ve told myself since the engagement party. I’m suddenly uncertain though, wondering if he’s been as haunted by it as I have, and I turn my face up to his with furrowed eyebrows. “Does it?”

My shoulder brushes his as I turn towards him and he shivers, inching away. “Course not. You’re right, I was drunk.” His voice is so low and rich, I feel a little lost in it for a minute before I’m pulling back as well.

Hands trembling, I stare out the window while he marches across the room to pour himself another drink. There’s a clink of ice behind me and I rest my lips against the edge of my glass, leaving a glossy imprint, as I blankly watch the rain.

I hear Miles gulp back his Scotch and set the bottle down on the minibar with a heavy clunk. When I glance over my shoulder at him, he’s stand with his back to me, hands braced on the laminate bar top, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining. Is he upset, because of how we could have unintentionally hurt Ben? Or is he struggling to control himself around me? Something like power washes over me but I shove it away; I don’t want _power_ over Miles. Do I?

I find myself walking across the room, carpet soft and springy under my shoes, until I’m standing right behind him. “Miles-”

“You should go,” he rasps suddenly, flinching when I rest a hand on his shoulder.

He looks so _pained_ , so hurt, it breaks my heart. “ _Did_ you mean it?” I whisper without thinking, curious as ever, as I slide my hand up over the soft cotton of his shirt.

Miles glances back at me, jaw clenched, one hand still wrapped around the bottle of Scotch. “I was drunk,” he parrots, his dark eyes refusing to meet mine.

I set my glass aside, stepping in closer, my hand moving up to the warm skin of his neck, veins and tendons stiff under my touch. “You’re drunk now,” I murmur, caressing his jawline with my thumb, my forehead knit together as we both ponder the unspoken question: would you mean it tonight?

He squeezes his eyelids together, long dark lashes catching and clinging, standing out stark on his skin. I could kiss him right now, could make him make love to me in that big bed over there, but oh god, we’d regret it.

Miles must have the same thought because he moves quicker than I realize he’s capable, one of his large, expansive hands locking around my wrist and dragging me away from him. “Rach,” he sounds like he’s begging now, “I shouldn’t have called. Please, go.”

It takes everything I have to pull away but he’s right. Of course he’s right. He shouldn’t have called (texted.) I shouldn’t have come. I step back, fingers falling from his hand as I grab my purse. How are you supposed to say goodbye when you’ve been told to go?

So I don’t, say goodbye that is. I just leave and it seems like it should be easier, walking away instead of dragging it out. I don’t know what we’ll do when we’re forced to see each other again, future siblings-in-law. I shove that thought somewhere deep and dark, hitting the elevator button with my knuckle again and again. When it finally arrives, it’s empty, and I lean against the wall inside as it rushes towards the ground, wishing I had spared a look back at him before I fled.

My low heels are almost silent on the sprawling rugs in the lobby and I thrust open the heavy, carved wooden doors, taking the steps outside two at a time. I skid to a halt at the curb, one hand wrapped tightly around the lamppost, and I’m almost immediately drenched, the rain cold and dark, despite blinding headlights that cut through it as they creep down the slick, dangerous street. I suck in a steadying breath, water pelting my cheeks and lips and sticking my hair to my face.

I’m freezing, soaked, not twenty feet from sanity (and my car), but all I can think about is turning around and walking right back upstairs. I stand there a few heartbeats longer, knowing I have to make a decision. Something about Miles feels inevitable, fated, like I can’t control how I feel about him. And I _hate_ it.

What I have with Ben, it’s easy, and I _chose_ it. Maybe it’s easy because I chose it. It’s what I decided I wanted. But Miles, Miles I just _want_. It’s wrong and cruel and selfish and I feel manipulated, like there’s something inside me, pulling my strings. That’s only too clear when I walk back up the front steps and inside, making up my mind in between raindrops and an ever-guiltier conscience. I step into a now-crowded elevator, my dripping hair and clothes attracting several nosy glances.

I step off on the fourth floor with a thirty-something couple, each supporting a sleeping child. The innocence of their little family, of the family Ben (and I?) want, makes me feel like such a tramp. Guilt pinches more fiercely at me as I head in the opposite direction from them, walking straight to Miles’ room. I stand in the hallway for a long couple of minutes, dripping on the carpet as I lift a hand to trace the metal numbers on his door: 413. Finally, taking a deep breath, I knock soundly on the door, not even sure what I’m going to say to him.

It’s silent, for almost too long, but the door is yanked open suddenly and Miles is standing there, looking wrecked. He stares at me for a moment before running a hand through his hair, muttering, “ _Fuck_ ,” under his breath.

I shiver, the hotel significantly warmer than outside but the rainwater soaking through my clothes and chilling my skin. “I mean it, Miles, I can’t stop thinking about- kissing you.” I can read it in his eyes: neither can he. Rubbing my arms, I choke out, “We can’t do this. But I’m going to lose my mind if we don’t.”

Miles shivers, eyes skating over me, bracing one hand on the doorframe. “Why would you _want_ to?”

It aches, knowing how unloved he’s always felt. “Haven’t you ever wanted something you can’t have? And it drives you crazy? Well, you’re driving me crazy and you’re so fucking forbidden and-”

He winces, hands wrapping loose around my arms as he pulls me inside. “I know, all right? I _know._ Are you… expected anywhere?” He means Ben, of course.

“No.” I don’t offer an explanation, too afraid to say Ben’s name out loud. He’s away at a conference this weekend, won’t be home until tomorrow night. It’s… convenient. Terrifyingly so. The possibilities presented by twenty-four hours are suddenly overwhelming.

Miles’ hands shake and he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. My eyes drop, his fidgeting drawing my attention, and I flush, unable to unsee the hard line of his cock beneath the edge of his shirt, nor the imprint of a single body in the fluffy bedspread behind him, pillows askew. I reach for him, fingers hesitantly brushing the line of his pants beneath cotton.

“Let me,” I whisper and he looks like he might cry for a moment, his eyes dark and wet, before he kicks the door shut and crushes me to him. His hands are tangled in my soaking wet hair and I’m clinging to him, mouth open and teeth bumping his. Miles gives a little moan, sliding one hand down my back to grind my hips into his. I part my legs, slacks feeling like an impossible barrier between us. He reaches back to flip the lock shut before we’re stumbling across the room to the bed, Miles tearing at my wet clothes.

We trip onto the bed, headboard rattling in protest, and he rips into my blouse, tugging at the thin camisole underneath. I lift my arms over my head, letting him drag it off so I’m left in my bra and pants. With Miles distracted, trying to untangle me from my bra straps, I tackle his jeans and find them already unbuttoned beneath the hem of his worn t-shirt. The confirmation leaves me breathless; I wonder how close to coming he was when I knocked at the door. Did he have his hand in his pants or did he have to scramble to tug them back on, already sprawled half-naked on the bed?

I shove the denim down his thighs, digging my fingers into his covered ass so my bra straps are stretched down over my arms, nipples peeking out over the soft pink cups. Miles groans, burying his head in my shoulder as he kicks off his jeans and fumbles blindly for the button on my slacks. Turning my head to the side, I catch his lips and then we’re distracted for several minutes by the innocent exploration of each other’s mouths, tongues soft but demanding. Finally we’re forced to pull apart so we can discard our remaining clothes, me dropping my bra to the floor and Miles pulling his shirt off over his head.

His dog tags jangle at his sternum and I rush to get out of my pants, that clink sending a jolt of lust through me. Miles stops me though, a hand on mine, his thumb nearly brushing my clit through two layers of fabric. I start to protest but he slides off the bed, dropping to his knees at the edge and gently pulls my heels off, chucking them to the side. He digs his thumbs into my arches, and I keen, pressing back against the soothing pressure of his hands.

It’s sweet and tender and it makes me feel even worse about what we’re doing: this isn’t just a tawdry fling that means nothing to either of us. I watch through heavily lidded eyes as he sucks my big toe in his mouth and it’s so unlike anything Be- so unlike anything I’ve felt before, the slightly rough sweep of his tongue over the pad of my toe, the scrape of his teeth as he frees me.

Miles moans like I’m a cold glass of the most expensive whiskey he’s ever tasted and stands over me in his boxers, unzipping my pants and drawing them slowly down my legs with the simple black panties beneath. He actually trembles at the sight of me naked, his gaze so intensely appreciative I’m almost embarrassed. But, then, I’m just as eager to see all of him, and so I reach up, fingers curling in the elastic band at his waist and yanking. His cock bounces free, long and pink and velvety, and my mouth waters, desperate for it.

I tug on his hand, pulling him down beside me in the soft, whispery white comforter, his tattoos black and inky by contrast. Miles breathes a sigh against my forehead, threading thick fingers into my hair again and drawing me into his body with a hand in the small of my back. Sliding my fingers down his chest, through the dark fur there that makes me want to bury myself in him, I wrap his hard cock in my small hand and squeeze.

He gives a quiet ‘ _uhh_ ’ and wraps me tighter in his arms, letting me map him with my fingertips, compressing his base between my thumb and palm. I trail down to his tip, naturally slicking my fingers and massaging his length until he’s groaning and panting into my hair. Back off and curling my hand at his hip instead, I grind into him, his cock caught against the flat plane of my stomach, and sealing my mouth over his. Miles dips his tongue in my mouth, massive hands spanning my bare back before he pulls away, rolling off me.

I lift myself back into the pillows as he digs in his bag for a condom, and I’m contentedly settled in a mound of downy fluff by the time he returns. Miles sinks over me and though we’ve never done this before, I swear it feels like the most comfortable sex I’ve ever had, our bodies fitting neatly together without the need for unnecessary chatter.

And then he tries to ruin it, of course.

“Are you sure about this?” Miles murmurs, even with his cock hanging between us, leaking on my stomach as he brushes a damp curl out of my eyes.

It’s a fair question: I suppose we haven’t technically crossed the point of no return. But I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to shatter this moment we both so clearly need. I reach for him, running my fingers through his dark, glossy hair.

“Yeah.” I smile slightly, tugging him into me. “I wouldn’t have come back if I wasn’t sure, Miles.”

He sighs softly, like he regrets asking, like he wishes he had just told me no. But then he’s tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, spitting the foil edge onto the floor and rolling the condom on so it obscures the veins and ridges of his cock. I mourn the loss for a moment before Miles nudges my thighs open and edges two fingers inside me, stroking the warm, wet cushiony muscles he finds there. My hands fist in the bedspread, a reedy little gasp escaping me, and he nearly smiles, finally drawing his fingers out a bit reluctantly.

Miles sinks onto his elbows, painting kisses over my lips and throat and clavicle even as his cock bobs between us, my hips bucking up toward him. It’s only when I yank on his hair, my nails grazing his scalp, that he steadies my hips and starts to guide himself inside me.

He’s _thick_. I wince, giving a slow exhale and consciously relaxing my body until he’s seated as deep as he can be.

Resting his head on my shoulder, he groans and reaches down to hook my thigh up over his arm, planting the heel of his hand in the mattress. We both take a moment to adjust, my fingers stroking along the back of his neck and then he’s rocking into me, his lips tracing my collarbone. Miles smells like spilt whiskey and soap and I can still sense the remnants of rain on my skin as he licks a path down to my breasts.

I tilt my hips up, craning towards him, and he sucks a nipple into his mouth. Beads of sweat form wherever our skin meets, my leg over his arm and his hip snapping against my thigh, chafing in a delirious, pleasure-pain kind of way. I’m nearly there, my hands clawing at his neck and shoulders for purchase, when he suddenly pulls almost all the way out, earning himself a strangled gasp from me.

“No, no-no-” I hear myself whimper, more desperate and needy than I really want to admit.

He’s maybe not as composed as he seems either though because he bunches up his forehead, dark hair bouncing. “Turn over?” he rasps, “God, baby, turn over.” A bead of sweat runs down his cheek and I reach up, brushing it off and plunging the fingertip in my mouth.

I moan, sucking his salt off my finger as I roll over, Miles stuffing a pillow under my hips. There’s a jangling behind me and I spread my legs on either side of him, before he sinks down on top of me, cock thrusting back into me with a slick, wet sound. His cold, metal dog tags land on my bare back and I shudder, clenching him tightly inside me.

“Good?” Miles gasps, leaning one elbow beside me on the bed.

“ _Good_ ,” I confirm, voice muffled and cracked. He slides a hand between me and the pillow, picking up a slow, deep rhythm and letting me grind my clit down against his palm.

Miles relaxes over me, his lips following the knobs of my spine. He reaches out with his free hand, elbow resting on the mattress, and gathers my still-damp hair off my neck. “Wanted you all those nights overseas.”

I shiver, relishing the mental image of Miles in his bunk with a hand in his fatigues, thinking about me. The words catch in my throat but it doesn’t make them any less true: “Wanted you too.”

He ducks his head, sucking on my earlobe, kissing my jaw, his cock thick and twitching inside me. The room is filled with our gasps and moans, the slap of skin and the rustle of down comforter, the pelting rain and clattering dog tags. Miles hits the same spot in me over and over until I’m writhing under him, my moans echoing and uncontrolled. I reach up blindly and clasp his hand in mine on the back of my neck, squeezing impossibly tight as my thighs cramp and my toes curl and then everything’s hazy and soft and _god_ , I’ve needed this.

When I blink back to awareness, Miles is coming inside me, panting and moaning obscenely against my shoulder blade. He seems to come forever, pumping into me and clinging fiercely to me, one hand tangled in my hair and fingers and the other having slid up from between my legs to wrap tight around my waist. When he _is_ finally finished, he collapses on top of me, as emotionally exhausted as I am, it would seem.

His weight on top of me is crushing and bruising and I don’t ever want him to get up. But eventually he does, eases out of me and discards the condom, before returning to tug the blankets out from underneath me. Miles wraps himself around me, draping the comforter over our naked, sticky bodies.

He squeezes one of those big hands at my shoulder, thumb nearly reaching across the back of my neck, and digs into the knots he finds there under my still-tingling skin. It’s quiet for several minutes, the rain rhythmic and soothing on the window, to the point that I’m almost asleep when he finally speaks.

“What are you thinking?” he whispers and it’s such a sweet, insecure sort of question, I have to roll over and see his face.

“I’m thinking…” I tuck myself in his arms, resting my cheek on his furry chest. “I can’t live without that. I’m thinking I want you inside me all the time.”

It’s not all I’m thinking about, of course. I’m also thinking how guilty I feel and how much worse it’s going to be in the light of day. The last thing I see in my head before I drift off is Ben’s face. I have no idea how I’m going to face him tomorrow.

I chose to be with Ben; I have to be with Miles. I hate myself, more than a little.

But it’s done. Whether this was ‘fate’ or just a series of very poor decisions (I’m about 89% sure it’s the latter), it’s happened. And now we get to live with the consequences.

 


End file.
